


One More Thing

by Daria2weird



Series: Safe Haven [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mentions of past mpreg, Mpreg, Not Really Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, current mpreg, infanticide sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daria2weird/pseuds/Daria2weird
Summary: Dean wakes from a hunt to find that Sam has not only been kidnapped by the very witch he's been hunting, but that she's cursed Sam in the one way that Dean swore Sam would never know.





	One More Thing

Dean fades in and out of consciousness for a while. He feels his body being moved –well, dragged across the floor. Rough hands sit him up against something solid. Splintery wood catches against his jacket as his arms are pulled behind him. Pressure around his wrists as they’re bound tightly with rope.

After a while, Dean is able to lift up his head and focus his eyes on the figure hovering over him. The man pulls up a stool and sits in front of Dean with a grin.

“Hunter,” he says.

“Dickbag,” Dean replies groggily, immediately receiving a punch to the face from someone standing just out of his eye line. Dean works his jaw until it clicks and looks up at his assailant. “Well, hello to you too, sunshine.”

“Winchester, isn’t it?” The man in front of him pulls Dean’s .45 from his jacket and unloads it, seemingly impressed by the choice of iron-coated ammunition. “You can call me Terry. The guy about to turn your face to jelly is Lee.”

No idea about Lee, but Terry? That’s the bartender who had served Dean that bitter-ass beer he had been talked into drinking tonight. An unfamiliar local brand, so Dean hadn’t thought much of it until something in it hit him hard enough that he had fallen off the barstool and onto the floor.

“A pleasure, fellas. Really.” Dean twists his wrists in the rope to get his hands into position to feel for anything on the floor that he might be able to use to free himself. Hopefully, Lee isn’t paying attention.

“You know, I shouldn’t be doing this,” Terry says, reloading the gun and waving it around in Dean’s face. “Orders are to kill you on sight. But how can I pass up the opportunity to pick the brain of the infamous Dean Winchester, the hunter hell-bent on single-handedly killing my people?”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ witches,” he mutters as his fingers scrape against the cool metal of a nail head in the floor.

Lee punches Dean again and Terry nods, pressing the barrel against Dean’s forehead. “Yeah. Fuckin’ witches. You know, if you hadn’t started this little rampage of yours, we’d still be laying low, minding our own damn business. But you’ve scattered more than half of the covens on the west coast. Beating us, _burning_ us… getting off on the sounds of our screams.”

Dean just smiles, working his fingernail under the nail in the floor and scraping away the wood around it as best as he can. He’s learned quite a bit about witches in the past few months. They have a flair for the dramatic and they are unapologetic gossips. He’s already heard a dozen rumors about the so-called infamous witch hunter, Dean Winchester, who had taken out so many witches that he had to keep count with tic marks scratched on the hood of that demonic-looking car of his.

Some of it is true.

Dean _had_ killed enough witches that he’d lost count sometime last month, but the marks on the Impala sure as hell hadn’t come from his need to keep count. Just a bad storm and parking too close to bushes. He’d been meaning to buff out those scratches for weeks, but he’s been a little busy hunting and trying to keep his father in the dark about this witch-hunting thing that he’s doing on the side.

And Dean isn’t enjoying himself enough to get off on anyone’s screams. He’s not looking to wipe witches off the planet. He’s looking for just one –the one that thought it would be a riot to make him have his brother’s baby. It hadn’t even been a matter of unfinished business. He would have left her alone. He _had_ left her alone.

But she hadn’t left _him_ alone. She still hasn’t.

A week or so after that night, Dean had opened his motel room door to find a package on the ground. Just a small cardboard box with his name written on it in fancy script. Inside had been that caterpillar book that Sam had bought for Bailey, covered in blood. Underneath it were sigils, also drawn in blood. So, of course, it had been from the witch. No one except Dad and Sam even knew about Bailey, so who else would have sent it?

And Dean could have let it go. He had prepared to. After all, this wasn’t proof of anything particularly sinister. Dean had plenty of other cases to focus on, creatures to vent his frustrations on. Then, he received the next three boxes of blood-soaked, baby stuff the following week.

So, yeah. Now Dean’s sort of on a rampage and he’s going to kill some witches until he finds the one he’s looking for.

Very slowly, Dean pulls the nail from the floor and positions it in his fingers until the pointed end makes contact with the rope. “If you’ve heard the rumors, then you know who I’m looking for. Greta Finn, evil bitch. She started all this. She’ll end it. Point me in her direction and I’m gone. You can all go back to laying low or whatever.”

“We’re supposed to believe that?”

“Scout’s honor. I’d do the hand thing, but…” Dean glances back at his bound hands and shrugs.

Terry exchanges a look with Lee. “We know who you’re looking for. And for the record, no one gives a damn about Greta. Her husband ripped our friends apart on _her_ orders. But we don’t turn in our people to hunters. We’ll take care of her ourselves.”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, right. It’s been, what? Three months now? I’m sure you got her right where you want her. You know, except maybe you don’t and she’s somewhere gettin’ tan while you lie in bed every night knowing that your friends were the last things her husband picked outta his teeth.” Dean is pretty sure that Lee’s fist loosens one of his teeth this time, but he just spits out half a mouthful of blood and starts laughing to himself. “Sorry. But there’s a man-witch-Manwich joke in there somewhere.” Lee kicks Dean in the stomach, leaving Dean bent over and coughing.

“Smart-mouth fuck,” Lee grunts, turning back to Terry. “Just kill him already.”

Dean catches his breath and stares straight down the barrel of his gun with a smirk. “Yeah, Terry. Just kill me already.” The rope is slowly but surely becoming more and more frayed around Dean’s wrists. Too slowly, though. “Because I’m not going to stop coming after you or your coven. And if I get outta these ropes, you’re both dead.”

There’s a gunshot from behind them and Lee falls to the floor. When Terry spins around and shoots at the mystery gunman, Dean pulls against the frayed ropes and breaks free. He grabs Terry from behind and shoves the nail that freed him into the witch’s eye, takes back his gun, and shoots Terry twice in the back. When Dean looks up, his father is glaring at him and Dean glares back.

“I had everything under control,” Dean says, grabbing up his duffel bag and heading out the door.

“If you were trying to get yourself killed, then, yeah, you had that goin’ for you,” John replies, following him out to the car. “So you wanna tell me what the hell just happened? Thought you were out gettin’ silver.”

Dean shakes the bag hanging off his shoulder, stolen cutlery, frames, and jewelry loudly clanking inside. “Got it.”

“Dean.”

“I went in for a drink. They got the drop on me –roofies or magic or somethin’. Next thing I know, I’m tied up.” Dean doesn’t bother giving John any further details because it won’t matter what he says. For the past few months, John’s new thing is to ask Dean to explain himself so that he can whip out a “gonna get yourself killed” lecture or some similar expression. Dean almost drowns during a water wraith case, and John says that he’s “playin’ with fuckin’ fire”. Dean nearly gets sacrificed to a Sumerian moon god, and he’s “too goddamn reckless”.

But it’s hunting. Of course he could get himself killed. If there were a hunting manual, it’d be on page one in bold, extra-large print. But Dean gets it. Yelling at Dean about stupid bullshit is a hell of a lot easier than talking to Dean about what’s been eating at him for the past few months. And Dean has hardened himself enough to let John’s words roll off his back now. He gives him a “yes, sir” or two and tries to look like he’s learning a lesson.

“Dean… You wanna look at me when I’m talkin’ to you?” Dean hesitates long enough to roll his eyes without John seeing and turns around. John walks up to Dean, staring right into those defiant, tired, hazel green eyes with a sigh. He hands Dean one of the two bottles of beer that he had apparently snagged from the bar and opens his, waiting for Dean to do the same.

Dean puts down his bag and opens the beer hesitantly. Hopefully, no magic roofies in this one. But he doesn’t say that or anything, even smiling a little when John raises his bottle and says, “To dead sons a’ bitches and untended bars.”

They clink bottles and take a few swigs before John meets Dean’s eyes again. “Been a change of plans. Jefferson’s not picking up the silver for us. Caleb called and we’re gonna check out some demonic omens in Oregon. If I head out now, I can get there in a couple of days.”

“Okay, sounds good. But you’re kinda talkin’ like I’m not goin’.”

John finishes off his beer. “You’re not… You think I’d send you anywhere near a demon after what happened tonight? I send you on an errand and end up saving your ass from some witches. Seems like every time I send you out alone, you come back late or drunk or looking like you went eight rounds with Ali. Why is that?”

“Dad, I’m doin’ the job, right? You’re really gonna bench me over some bar fights?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Dean. I heard what you said, about how you’re going to keep hunting the coven.” He waits for Dean to protest, but Dean stays silent. He knows better than to argue. “So, this witch you’re after, we talkin’ the same one that made you have that thing in Nevada?”

The insides of Dean’s cheeks are still raw from the last time John had referred to Dean’s daughter as ‘that thing’ and he cuts his eyes away from his father quickly as his mind hurtles him back to that day, to that pain and fear and foreign stretch between his thighs –the burn of it…

Of that thing.

Dean keeps his eyes lowered, unclenching his jaw enough to respond to John’s question. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s been about three months now, right?” Sixteen weeks and four days, to be exact, but Dean just nods. “Well, the coven isn’t gonna come to you. So, get out there. Take a couple of weeks and wrap up your case. Come back to me with your head clear.”

“You serious?” For weeks, Dean had begged Dad to let him go on a solo hunt. For weeks. Every time, the answer had been no. Too reckless. Too risky. Get himself killed. The usual.

John picks up the bag of silver by Dean’s feet and loads it into his truck. “Yeah, I’m serious. Finding her seems like a long shot to me, but you’re no good to me like this –head in the clouds while you’re supposed to be backing me up. Besides, you’d go after her no matter what I said. Been doin’ that anyway.”

Dean isn’t about to confirm or deny any of that. John either knows or he doesn’t. No use starting a fight about all the lies Dean has told since then. Better to just keep his mouth shut.

“You got a plan?”

Dean shrugs. “Find the bitch. Kill the bitch,” he mutters.

John sighs. “Get serious about this, Dean. Do your research. Not much out there that’ll kill a witch.” John pats Dean’s shoulder. “Get rid of it. Take care of it. Proud of you, son.”

That can’t be right. Dean just stands there a moment. “What?”

John frowns. “I said, don’t get yourself killed out there, boy. You and I still got work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

John’s looking at him kind of funny, like he’s got this feeling that he’s sending Dean off to slaughter. His son does look a little pale and he’s a bit sweaty. Probably nerves. Dean always talks a good game and he’s brave, but he gets nervous like anyone else. Or maybe he’s still coming down from whatever those witches dosed him with. Either way, John isn’t in his truck yet.

“You good?” John asks. “’Cause you got a pretty big crime scene to clean. Bodies to take care of.”

_Take care of it._

_Get rid of it._

Why is that burn still between Dean’s legs?

Dean’s head is throbbing and he’s still kind of dizzy, but he just wants Dad to leave. It’s not like him to hover. Didn’t hear from him for hours when Dean was curled up in a motel room thinking he was going to die. _Now_ he cares?

“Dad, I’m fine. I got it.” Dean takes another drink and tries to pretend that he doesn’t notice how John is staring at him. He pushes the attitude away just long enough to put on a convincing face. “I’m good.”

John doesn’t look convinced, but it doesn’t matter. He has somewhere to be, so he gets in his truck and leaves, telling Dean that he’ll check in when he can.

_Get rid of it._

Dean leans his body against the car a moment and lets out a breath. John’s finally gone, so why is it getting _harder_ to breathe? He lowers his head and pulls in a breath but it gets caught on the way to his lungs. There’s pressure on his chest. It feels like something is pressing down on it. Something heavy.

Less than a case of beer.

Less than a Biggerson’s order.

So… six or seven pounds.

Some _thing_.

When did it get so damned hot? His clothes are soaked through with sweat and Dean peels off his jacket, tossing it into the car. Should be easier to breathe now. But it isn’t. It’s like he has to gulp down air to get it into him, but his lungs are rejecting it and pushing it back out as fast as he’s taking it in. And he can’t get on top of it, not even when he tilts his head all the way back. Not when he bends forward.

He doesn’t have time for this. He’s got work to do.

That burn is still down there and it’s getting more intense. Dean brings his thighs together, but he knows it isn’t happening again. He’s already repeating it to himself in his head and as soon as he’s convinced, he’ll remember how to breathe like a normal person again. He could do it if his heart wasn’t beating so hard against that weight still on his chest. If he could stop sweating and if he could stop feeling that burn –why is it still burning? How much longer now before the stretch? Before his skin rips apart and something –some _thing_ pushes through again?

The beer comes back up and Dean stays bent over even after he stops dry heaving. It resets his lungs somehow. Breathing gets a little easier. The phantom weight on his chest starts to disappear and the burning goes away. It’s done.

Third time this week.

He runs a hand over his face and it’s all he needs to get himself together. He goes into the bar, locking the door behind him and turning on the neon ‘closed’ sign. The bar actually _is_ supposed to be closed, after all. Don’t want anyone to get suspicious and come barging in to find the two dead guys in the back. Any other time, Dean would be rushing around to get the hell out of town, but he had stopped in for a drink, damn it, and he still hadn’t gotten what he‘d come for. Right now, he needs it.

Dean goes behind the counter and grabs the first big bottle he sees. He opens it, gives it a whiff, and raises his eyebrows with a low whistle as the scent of scotch hits him in the face.

“To dead sons a’ bitches and untended bars,” he says with a chuckle. He closes his eyes and takes in a mouthful, the burn trailing behind the liquor and leaving behind warmth that slowly spreads over his chest and rests in his stomach.

Good scotch. Not great. Good enough that he takes another drink. And then a few more.

He’s feeling a little lightheaded, but he isn’t drunk. Dean takes the bottle and walks over to the pool table with unsteady steps, sideswiping three tables with his hips on his way. Okay, so maybe he’s a little drunk. It won’t last long. It never does. He sets down the scotch, gives the cue a twirl, and steadies it in front of the cue ball.

“That thing,” he mutters, sinking a couple of striped balls and scanning the table for his next point of attack. “That _thing_ had a name, Dad.”

Dean snatches up the bottle and drinks until it’s empty, the stinging in his throat bringing tears to his eyes.

This isn’t helping.

Nothing ever really helps. The only thing that comes close is hunting this witch. Once she’s dead, it’ll be over. No more nightmares. No more panic attacks. No more phantom pains. Once he knows that the witch is gone and his daughter is somewhere safe, he might finally be able to sleep longer than a couple of hours a night.

In the meantime, he keeps going. He lies a lot –to himself, to Dad, whomever. No, he didn’t have a nightmare. No, he doesn’t get chills from just sitting on a motel room bed. No, he doesn’t wish he could go back to that night, install that car seat in the Impala, and follow Sam to California.

He wonders how Sam is dealing with all this.

“Bet he ain’t calling her a thing,” Dean says bitterly, taking another drink.

No, if anything, Sam is doing the college thing, probably getting pissed every time he has to scroll past Dean’s name in his phone. It would explain why Sam had made contact with Dean exactly zero times in sixteen weeks and four days. Though to be fair, Dean hadn’t attempted any communication either.

But he’s drunk, he’s angry, and he’s about to burn and bury a couple of bodies. Dean can’t think of a better time to reach out to his brother. He flips open his phone and sends Sam a text.

_< Put down the books and help me dig this grave real quick, bitch.>_

Dean puts the phone away and begins the annoying task of moving the witches’ bodies to his car. He’s pretty sure there had been a freshly dug grave in the cemetery that he’d driven past earlier.

It takes two hours with shaky hands and blurred vision, but the witches are burning in that grave. Dean watches with heavy lidded eyes as the flames lick around the bodies and turn pale and bloodstained skin into charred black crust. He feels his head dropping forward and his eyes closing, but he shakes himself out of it quickly and goes back to watching the burning corpses. When had watching bodies burn become so boring?

Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

One new message from Bro.

_< Drop the cheeseburger, push the waitress off your lap, and dig it yourself, jerk.>_

Dean smiles and dials Sam’s number. The text probably wasn’t supposed to be an open invitation for Dean to call, but if Sam’s up, then Dean has a much a better way to stay awake.

Six rings before Sam picks up, leaving Dean a little regretful by the time Sam actually answers.

“Hey.”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy analyzing Sam’s ‘hey’. It’s not quite ‘hey, I don’t want to talk to you’. But it certainly isn’t ‘hey, I was hoping you’d call’.

“Hey… So, turns out, I didn’t need you after all. Got the waitress to help me dig. We bonded.”

Sam lets out that little huff of air that isn’t really a laugh but is the closest to laughter that Dean can expect before sunrise. “Great. You’ll invite me to the wedding, right?”

Dean hesitates again. He had expected a lot more awkwardness or at least low-key hostility, but Sam isn’t giving off any of those vibes. “Forget the wedding. I’ll take the bachelor party, though. Two strippers for every able-bodied man.”

Another huff-laugh sounds in Dean’s ear. “Yeah, that sounds more like you.”

Dean smiles. “You’re up kind of late for a school night, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess… Hey, Dad? Put Dean back on, would you?”

“Shut up. Dad wouldn’t have even…” Dean stares down into the grave. The fire is dying down, and the smoke rising out of it is darker. Finally, he can wrap this up and get the hell out of this town.

Sam sighs. “No, he probably wouldn’t have,” he agrees because Dean could have finished that thought with just about anything and it would have been more or less accurate. “Weird to hear _you_ say that, though. Everything okay?”

Dean hesitates too long before he answers because he knows what’ll happen if he says anything negative against Dad, no matter how small. Sam will spend the next ten minutes verbally crucifying their father for every single thing he’s ever done in the history of ever because screw him and his so-called parenting right up his ass and so on. And even though he should be ready to rip into his father, Dean just isn’t feeling it anymore. He’s too tired.

“Yeah, everything’s good,” he finally answers with a nod, trying his best to force some truth into the words. “Dad left town already. I’m finishing up this witch case.”

“The grave you were talking about is for a witch?” Sam asks warily. “Since when do you kill witches?”

Dean shrugs. “Since now, I guess. Consecrated iron bullets, little fire. I got it.”

“And decapitation just in case, right?”

That might have been a good idea. Why hadn’t Dean thought of that? Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. This ain’t my first rodeo, Sammy.” He steps closer to the grave, straining to see anything through that thick smoke and hoping that Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Otherwise, there’s going to be a pretty long list of pissed off, half-burnt witches out there. At least two in dangerously close proximity. But he doesn’t see anything moving and he can’t hear anything other than crackling fire.

Still…

He heads back to the Impala where he knows he’ll find a machete in the back seat. Better safe than sorry.

“I know,” Sam agrees. “But I know witches aren’t your usual thing. There’s barely a paragraph in Dad’s journal about ‘em, and older witches are usually harder to kill, right?”

“They fry up like everything else, Sam.” A loud crunch behind him makes Dean draw his gun. But there’s nothing there when he turns around, so he keeps heading for the car. “Listen, I’m losing light, Sammy. I gotta fill this grave and get outta dodge, you know?”

“All right. Be safe.”

More crunching behind him, but Dean just keeps moving forward, maybe a little faster now. “Safe’s my middle name. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Dean hangs up and puts his phone away, practically an arm’s reach from the gate. It’s open and it’s so close –literally less than ten feet away, so it’s no surprise when it slams shut in his face.

“Hey! Smart mouth fuck!”

Dean just smiles to himself as he turns around. Lee, his face barely recognizable under fresh, bright red blisters and melted flesh, is coming up the path behind him because of course he is.

He aims the gun and fires, cursing when all he hears is a click. There’s a clip in his jacket, but there isn’t nearly enough time to grab it. Dean backs toward the gate slowly. “Lee… Listen, pal. It’s been a long ass night for both of us, huh? Let’s just wipe the slate clean and start over. We forget about tonight. I let you go home, and you can put some ointment on… probably everywhere. You let me leave town, and we call it bygones, huh? What do you say?”

Lee holds out his hand to Dean, pulling the hunter toward him and slowly cutting off his air without laying a finger on him. “I’d rather watch youburn.” He sends Dean flying toward the fire and drops him just short of the grave and into a headstone.

Dean can feel blood pooling under his head, but before he can even roll over, Lee is on top of him. Charred hands tighten around his throat, and blackened and cracked fingernails dig into Dean’s skin. Lee mutters Latin words that Dean doesn’t recognize and then Lee’s hands erupt in flames, scorching Dean’s face and neck.

Dean just barely has enough strength to free himself from Lee’s hold, head-butting him hard and causing his vision to dim. He struggles to find the clip for his gun, loading it just as Lee lunges for Dean again. Dean gets two shots off into Lee’s chest and the witch drops.

Consecrated iron bullets this time.

Dean’s arms drop. The gun drops. He can barely move and the blood is still pooling under him. Not just his blood this time.

No time to move Lee’s body or to follow Sam’s advice and cut off the head. No time to bury the bodies. No time to hide his gun or any of the weapons in the Impala. No time to call Dad to see if he’s close enough to turn back around and help.

Dean’s fingers brush against his cell phone. He pries it open with his thumb and blindly presses what he hopes is 911. He can hear the phone ringing and ringing. But the concussion and exhaustion are pulling him under fast and Dean’s out right before the line clicks.

_“Dean?”_

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dean feels his body jerk itself awake. It takes only a second for him to realize that he isn’t where he should be. Losing consciousness in a cemetery, he should either be in a hospital, jail, or the morgue. As luck would have it, Dean is in a motel room, though not in the clothes that he’d been wearing. He’s missing a couple of layers. Now, he’s just in a T-shirt and loose sweatpants. Had he even packed sweatpants?

He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and looking around the room. There’s a bed across from him, unmade with an unzipped duffel bag lying on its side, most of the contents spilled out on the comforter. It takes just a glance to recognize it as Sam’s. He knows that brown hoodie anywhere.

He grabs a handful of fast food menus and business cards from the nightstand. “Turlock, California,” he reads aloud. He’d been in New Mexico. That’s over half a day’s drive, so Dean has lost at least one full day.

Dean gets up, all of his muscles screaming in protest of any movement, and takes a peek out of the window.

The Impala’s right there.

And beside it is a powder blue hybrid kind of like the one Sam had driven the last time Dean had seen him.

Exactly like it.

“Sam?” Dean calls toward the bathroom.

No answer. He peeks his head in. Empty.

Maybe Sam had just gone for a walk to get supplies or something. Dean knows his brother isn’t above walking a few blocks on a nice day.

But one lame protein bar from Sam’s bag later, and Sam isn’t back. It doesn’t take this long to walk down the road and back, especially when your unconscious brother is left alone in a seedy motel room. In retrospect, Sam wouldn’t have walked for supplies. He would’ve taken the car if it meant saving five or ten minutes so that he could get back to Dean. Dean’s pretty sure of that.

Either way, Sam should have been back by now.

Dean picks up his phone and quickly finds Sam’s number in his recent calls and at least three times in his missed calls. That was three days ago. Three days? Is that right?

Dean doesn’t dwell on it too long though because the line is ringing and ringing and he’s trying not to think about the last time Sam’s phone rang and rang like that but he knows it was seventeen weeks ago and now thoughts of that pain are returning. All those hours in pain, thinking he was going to die alone that night. That stretch. God, that burn…

That ‘thing’.

Why isn’t Sam picking up?

“Come on, Sammy.” The line finally clicks. “Sam?”

No answer.

“Sam, you there?”

“Dean.”

That’s not Sam, but he’s pretty sure that he hears Sam groaning in the background. Dean nods to himself when he recognizes the voice on the line. “Greta.”

“Long time, no see,” she replies. “And I _do_ want to see you, Dean. I never thanked you properly for what you did to my husband.”

His grip on the phone tightens, but his voice remains steady. “Well, we can fix that right now, sweetheart. Where’re you holing up these days?”

“I’m sure Sam and I left enough breadcrumbs for you to find me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam’s groans grow louder and a shiver runs down Dean’s spine. “My brother’s got nothin’ to do with this. If you let him go –”

“Not a chance,” she interrupts. “You took someone from me, so I’m taking someone from you. An eye for an eye. You didn’t get that from my gifts? A lot of work went into figuring out the perfect things to send you. And I can’t wait for you to find what I left you today.”

“Yeah, real sweet of you. And believe me, I’ve got something for you too.” But there’s little time for Dean to commit to any specific threat. A familiar twinge runs painful waves through his stomach and has him bent over the bed. Whatever it is doesn’t last very long, though Dean is still left panting a little by the end.

Not again.

Dean rushes around the room, turning things over, pulling out drawers, and tearing through everything like a madman for his hex bag. It’s got to be another hex bag. He doesn’t have the benefit of Sam’s help this time. But Dean’s going to find the thing and burn it himself because he’s not going to go through this all over again. He’s just not.

“Rumor has it that you’re a pretty seasoned witch hunter already, so maybe you’ve done research on spells like the one I did on you before.” She’s just mocking him now. Dean wonders if she can see him bent over the bed, head lowered and gritting his teeth. The pain hadn’t been this frequent last time.

The worst of it passes and Dean goes back to his search, reaching under his mattress, his fingers brushing against a lump of fabric. Dean pushes the mattress away and picks up the dark blue hex bag. He digs a lighter out of his pocket and nearly has it lit when his eyes dart away for a second and land on something at the foot of the bed.

Another hex bag.

Sam’s in pain too. If one of these bags isn’t Dean’s, then Sam…

No. Sam will never know that kind of pain if Dean can help it. Not ever.

“They’re called diametric spells,” Greta continues. “The second someone else touches the hex bag and burns it, the curse is altered and becomes a completely different spell.”

On a hunch, Dean moves Sam’s mattress and curses when he finds three more hex bags hidden there.

Greta chuckles. She probably can see him. “In your case, a spell meant to destroy you slowly from the inside out becomes one of creation. Of course, it’s still a curse, so it won’t exactly end in a happily ever after –”

“Listen to me, bitch. I’m comin’ for you even if I have to drag myself on my hands and knees. You hear me?” His whole body is trembling. Adrenaline, he hopes. “And if you hurt Sam, I’m gonna make you wish you were dead a hundred times over before I put you outta your misery.”

Greta scoffs and there’s a bit of a struggle over the line before Sam cries out again. “Like I said, I’m not going anywhere. So come and get me.”

She starts reciting something in Latin and a sudden, sharp pain begins to flare up in Dean’s middle. He bends forward over the bed, dropping the phone to support himself on his shaky arms. Faintly, he can still hear a scuffle over the phone and he’s pretty sure that Sam gets in a lick or two based on the huffs and grunts that Greta makes.

Dean smiles. _Atta boy, Sammy. Give the bitch one for me._

There’s a sudden shriek and forceful grunt from Greta and very quickly everything goes silent. Dean grabs up the phone again, hoping that Sam will pick up, make some smartass comment, and already be on his way to saving Dean’s ass again. But no such luck. He gets Greta finishing her spell, repeating the words she’d said before without any interruptions. Without any background noise at all.

Dean growls into the phone. “If my brother’s not in one piece when I get there, I’m gonna rip you apart. So you better juice up now because I’m on my way.”

_Click._

He recognizes one word from that spell she’d spouted off –dolorem. Means pain. Well, he’s feeling that. He hasn’t stopped feeling it since she said it. But it’s different. It’s not waves like before. It’s steady and sharp like a knife too deep in his gut to pull out. It brings him to his knees and then he’s thrown back to that place of burn and stretch and pain.

It really is happening again. It’s happening and Sam can’t help him this time. Dad’s halfway across the country by now. There are pills in the trunk, but Dean can’t move. He can’t breathe and he can’t move because moving somehow hurts more than kneeling by the bed with his face buried in the mattress. Breathing hurts.

Like the last time and like always, Dean doesn’t have time for this. Sam needs him right now and maybe Bailey too. He’s got to focus and get the hell out of here.

“Come on, Winchester. You’re okay. You’ve been in worse scrapes than this.” He really hasn’t. Last time was a cakewalk compared to this. This self-motivation crap has never worked. Hard to convince yourself of something that you know isn’t true. What would Dad say?

_You’re no good to me like this._

_To dead sons a’ bitches and untended bars._

_Get rid of it._

Okay, not helpful. What would Sam say?

_It’s okay. Don’t panic. We got this._

_We’re gonna get through this._

Better. Much better. Dean finds the strength to get to his feet and the pain fades enough for him to pack the car and leave. He grabs the pills from the trunk. Only takes two because he’s got work to do. Any other time, he’d take four and sleep through the pain, but he’s on high alert today. Got to focus. Find Sam.

-0-0-0-0-0- 

Finding Sam is the easy part. The GPS on Sam’s phone is still on and it only takes one half-assed police officer impersonation to the phone company to trace Greta’s call.

There are only two buildings in the area. Some old abandoned farmhouse and a winery in Angwin, California. Pretty safe bet that Sam’s at the farmhouse.

It’s just one hour away.

It actually takes about two hours to get there because, for whatever reason, traffic is a bitch and Dean has to keep stopping on the side of the road when the pain grips him and just holds on. He spends those long stretches of time in his own head, pushing away nausea or trying not to think about how Sam’s been suffering longer. He pushes away thoughts that Sam might have been at this for days.

He tries not to think about the burn that’s soon to come. Then, what? Another ‘thing’ to hide from Dad? Another ‘thing’ to abandon in a hospital?

Dean’s latest stabbing pain hits and he sits in front of the rundown farmhouse for what feels like forever, his head resting on the steering wheel as he steadies his breathing. The pills aren’t doing anything anymore. He doesn’t bother taking more. They barely did anything anyway. He still wonders if Greta can see him. He’s been trying like hell not to give her a show, but Dean is about five minutes away from curling up into a sweaty, nauseous, shaky little ball and he doesn’t care if she sees.

The sound of Sam’s muffled yell from the house refocuses Dean on his mission. He’s got goose egg for a plan and he’s got about two minutes before he’s doubled over again. If he’s going to do something even close to badass, like making it to the door without crumbling to the ground in tears, then he’s got to move right now.

Dean makes his way to the front door, although stealth is shoved right out the window when every old wooden board under his feet creaks and squeals against the nearly absent sounds of nature. Dean listens at the door before trying the knob, drawing his gun and pushing the door open with a creak so loud and shrill that he can feel it in his teeth. He can already smell blood, too thick in the air to be anything except fresh. He looks down. Just inside is a cardboard box on the floor with Dean’s name scrawled across it in neat script.

Another of Greta’s gifts.

Dean shuts the door behind him and scans the room briefly before putting his weapon away and making his way back to the box. He gives the box a quick once over –his name and a bunch of sigils drawn in blood, just like the others. He kneels down and breaks the single layer of tape on the lid with his switchblade and carefully opens the flaps of the box.

The odor of wet blood and rotting flesh is more than a little nauseating and hits him well before he ever sees anything. It’s by no means a new combination of smells for him, but Dean still needs a moment to pull himself together.

When he’s pretty sure that he won’t vomit, Dean peers into the box. There’s a fluffy pink baby blanket stuffed inside, kind of like the one Sam had bought for Bailey. And blood. Lots of blood.

Dean tugs lightly at the blanket and jerks his hand back when something heavy lolls back against his fingers.

Something round and cold.

And with soft curls of fine brown hair.

“No. No-no-no-no…” Dean pokes through the box enough to uncover the tiny heart-shaped face covered in blood. Even still, Dean can make out the little almond shapes of her eyes. Like Sam’s eyes.

“Bailey…” Dean’s not even sure her name actually comes out of his mouth. His throat is too dry, too clenched to make out any words.

The blood is so fresh. How long has she been like this? Does Sam know? Had Greta made him watch? If Sam never speaks to him again, Dean won’t blame him. How could he? But if Sam doesn’t know, what’s Dean going to tell him?

God, what’s he going to tell him?

Sam had fought so hard to keep Bailey, but he’d fallen in line when Dean had suggested there might’ve been a better way to do right by their little girl.

This isn’t better.

“Damn it.” Dean gets up, still focused on the unmoving newborn by his feet. He takes a few steps back and blinks away the tears that he doesn’t have time to shed. He can let himself break later. He’s still got a job to do.

From somewhere above him, Sam yells long and loud, his voice bounding down the termite-destroyed staircase and vibrating against the walls. Dean’s gaze flicks up toward the sound and he’s halfway up the stairs before another pain has him doubled over and gripping onto the railing so hard that a rotted piece of it breaks off in his hand.

A lifetime passes before it ends, but the second it does, Dean dashes up the stairs, calling out to his brother in a voice that isn’t even close to stealthy. “SAM???”

The house is deathly silent for a few beats too many and he stops in the middle of the hallway, pulling his gun. “Sam?” he tries again.

There’s quite a bit of movement and creaking coming from somewhere over his head. Dean tilts his head up to the ceiling and pulls down the attic ladder. The second Dean reaches the top, a pain grips him again and he drops to all fours, his moans intermingling with Sam’s.

As the pain tapers off, Dean looks up, relief washing over his features the second he lays eyes on Sam. Not that Sam looks all that good right now. He’s dripping with sweat, his hair half-glued to his forehead and fallen over his red-rimmed eyes in wet dark curls. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His wrists are covered in purple bruises and are bound in chains hanging from the rafters. Panting irregularly through a pain, Sam seems to curl in on himself a little, but the chains only allow so much forward movement.

Dean gets to his feet, crouched low to avoid the wooden beams barely holding up the partially caved in roof. “Sammy?”

Slowly, Sam’s breathing returns to something close enough to normal and he turns his head to Dean, exposing the fresh tear tracks on his cheeks. “Dean,” he huffs out with a relieved smile.

Any other circumstances, Dean might have smiled back, but he just sets his gun on the floor and digs out his tools to pick the first heavy padlock holding his brother’s chains. “So what part of ‘I got this’ did you have trouble with, Sam?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, Dean. Probably the part where you actually ‘got this’.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean glances over his shoulder before starting in on the lock. “So where’s the wicked witch? She jump ship or what?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. She knocked me out when I broke loose earlier. When I woke up, she was gone and she’d switched out the ropes for chains.”

“Yeah, I heard you givin’ her hell.” Dean pulls the lock off and Sam’s arm limply drops down onto his lap. “Do I wanna know what she was doin’ to you?”

“She carved something into me.” Sam uses his newly freed hand to lift up his bloodstained shirt, rubbing the underside of his belly.

His unusually, incredibly distended belly that stops Dean cold in his tracks.

“Sam…”

“I know. She –Ah! Mmmm…” Sam tenses and tries to twist away from the pain rising under his palm. He gasps and digs his nails into his skin when it gets worse, his breathing panicky and shallow. He holds his breath a moment and releases a forceful lungful of air.

“Easy, Sammy. I gotcha. Breathe.” Dean abandons freeing Sam’s other hand, offering his for Sam to squeeze. His heart manages not to break into a million pieces when Sam wordlessly takes him up on the offer. “Nice and slow… Just like that. Good… Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll stop this.”

All the while, telltale signs of another pain are now working through Dean. Pressure builds and builds. Dean’s breathing slowly but surely becomes uneven as wave after wave of pressure and pain crashes into him, clamping his abdominal muscles down down down until he’s literally on his knees. He attempts a brave face through it all, keeps his head bowed with his eyes squeezed shut and holds back his groans, but he can’t even form words anymore and he’s trying to remember all that breathing nonsense that he just spouted off to Sam.

“We can’t stop this,” Sam pants heavily, and Dean’s almost certain that Sam’s lip quivers a bit. “It’s-it’s… I can’t –”

Sam presses his lips together and hums long and deeply in the back of his throat. When he’s able to speak again, he opens his eyes and lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“Dean, this is –It’s different than what she did to you.” He drags Dean’s hand to his stomach. Dean tries to pull his hand back because Sam’s stomach already looks like it hurts. It’s all red and bruised with a bunch of blood-covered symbols etched into the skin. It’s also moving a little. At least, it looks like it is.

But he doesn’t fight against it too much because Dean’s curious enough to feel whatever it is that Sam thinks Dean can’t see right now with his eyes. So he lets Sam press his hand against his belly. And then he feels it. Something rolls under his hand and then pushes up against his fingers. Then, scratching. It feels like something is scratching in there.

Now he knows that Sam’s lip just quivered. “She said there’s no way to stop it.”

There’s just enough fear in Sam’s voice that Dean’s blood runs cold. It isn’t too far from how his own voice had sounded when he had talked to Sam in that filthy motel room in Nevada seventeen weeks ago. Even so, Dean manages not to look worried.

“Yeah? Well, those sound like fightin’ words to me.” Dean gives Sam’s stomach a brief glance when it moves again and goes back to getting Sam’s other wrist free. Definitely no time to waste now. Who knows how long before Sam has to have this…

The only word that comes to mind is ‘thing’ and it almost makes him sick.

But if the spell Greta used on Sam is different, then burning the hex bags shouldn’t affect Sam. And it would be a pretty smart move, tricking Dean into carrying around his own hex bags.

Dean turns away from the lock that he can’t concentrate on long enough to open and pulls the hex bags and his lighter from his jacket. He sends all the bags up in blue flames. His pain stops almost instantly. But Sam’s doesn’t and that belly is still there.

A deep creaking sound grabs Dean’s attention and he looks up, certain that the roof must be collapsing on them. He realizes too late that it’s coming from under him, the floorboards already bending under his feet and dropping him down.

Sam grabs Dean’s hand tightly and pulls, straining every muscle in his upper body to keep him from falling through the floor. But they both know that without Sam’s other hand free, it won’t be enough to hold Dean’s weight. Sam’s chained hand is close to being ripped off, his hand and wrist turning bright red as he’s slowly being pulled down with Dean and the floorboards are splintering and breaking –

“Sammy, let go,” Dean orders through clenched teeth.

Sam shakes his head and keeps pulling, but Dean’s slipping out of his hand. Pretty soon, he won’t have any control over the situation.

Dean wedges the lock pick between his brother’s fingers and lets his hand slide out of Sam’s. He crashes through two floors and lands hard on his side in a cloud of dust, pain radiating through his entire body and leaving him groaning until it begins to dull.

When he recognizes the undeniable smell of blood, he turns his head toward it. Not far from his face is that blood-soaked box, right where he’d left it.

When Dean hears footsteps, he tries to sit up, tries to draw his gun, tries to move any part of his still aching body, but he can’t. Greta stands over him, her hand raised, palm open and aimed at Dean, keeping him pinned to the floor.

“After all that, you’re really not going to say ‘thanks for dropping in’?” Dean asks.

“Your brother’s going to die because of you, and you think this is funny?”

“Lady, if you’re lookin’ for an apology –”

Greta closes her hand into a tight fist and slowly twists her wrist to one side with a frown. Dean feels something shift within him, maybe his organs or his bones or both. Whatever it is hurts and he scrunches up his face.

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream. But it’s too much. Already too much and then suddenly worse, and pretty soon Dean is screaming too loudly to hear whatever smartass thing she’s saying. He makes out enough of it though.

“I don’t want an apology. I want my husband back.”

Somewhere above them, they hear Sam growling through pain of his own. Greta glances up and smiles. “Sam wasn’t supposed to be part of this. But when I tracked you down and I saw him, I thought: You took someone from me, so why not show you what that feels like?”

Dean can barely breathe over the pain still cutting deeply into him that he can’t twist away from no matter how badly he needs to. It takes everything he has to push words over his lips. “I’m not gonna let you kill my brother.”

Greta smiles and takes a few steps toward him. “You _say_ that, but there’s no counter spell. Sam’s pain will get worse. He might last another day, but the stress will weaken his heart. Killing me won’t stop the spell either. If you really want to help your brother, you’ll have to put a bullet in him.”

Dean shakes his head. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?” She pulls out a long ceremonial dagger and lifts Dean’s shirt, lightly tracing circles around his navel. “But if you want proof, I’ll show you firsthand.” Greta straddles Dean’s legs and begins to carve deeply into Dean’s flesh with long, slow, careful strokes that stretch from his chest to his waistline. “I’ll show you what real pain is –what real loss is…”

He tries to move away from her, but whatever she’s doing to keep him held down hasn’t gotten any weaker. Dean grits his teeth, trying not to yell as each symbol is scratched over already raw nerves and through hundreds of tiny vessels that release enough blood that Dean wonders if she’s going to just let him bleed out instead.

No more than three symbols are finished before Dean opens his eyes to two loud pops and something wet spraying his face and stomach.

Greta stands up and holds her hand out, pulling Sam down the stairs and across the room. His head hits the wall before he lands hard on the floor with a grunt, clutching that huge belly and curling in on it. The gun clatters somewhere away from him, but the damage is done. Sam’s still a pretty good shot even in distress and both bullets are lodged in the witch’s chest.

She takes a few huffing breaths and then screams as she stabs straight down at Dean with the blade still clutched in her hand. But Dean is long gone, able to move the second her attention had turned to Sam. When she turns to him, Dean already has his gun aimed at her, though he hasn’t quite made it off of his knees yet.

“Stop the spell,” Dean growls. “Stop it and I’ll let you go.”

Greta just kind of smiles, the look of defiance in her eyes telling Dean everything he needs to know about her intentions. She’s not going to stop a damn thing. Maybe because she’s just that angry or maybe because she really can’t stop it. Or maybe because she knows that he’d never let her go after everything she’d done.

She lunges at him and Dean pulls the trigger without hesitation, striking her twice in the head.

Dean gets to his feet and wipes her blood from his face with his sleeve. He walks over to Greta and stares down at the pool of blood forming under her and around the box holding his little girl. Dean has half a mind to empty the rest of the gun into her.

Then, a whole mind.

Things go a little blurry for a while and suddenly Dean’s gun is empty. Sam’s calling his name, but he sounds so damn far away. Good. He doesn’t need the judgment right now. Sam still doesn’t know everything that she did. He doesn’t know what’s in that box. Sam doesn’t understand that Greta had gotten better than what she’d deserved. And in the end, Dean had given her exactly what she’d wanted –a reunion with her husband. Meanwhile, he’s lost his daughter and might lose Sam too. It’s not even a fair trade.

Dean holds out a hand to help Sam up, but when Sam doesn’t take it, Dean catches a glimpse of that judgment he had tried to avoid.

Letting his arm drop back down to his side, Dean sighs. “What? You saw her. She wasn’t going to help us.”

“And that meant you had to sink six extra rounds in her?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We can debate ethics after we get outta here, all right? Now, come on.” Again, he holds out his hand and, again, Sam doesn’t take it.

“Dean, I barely made it down the stairs. I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

“I can get you to the car, Sam. I’ll call Dad and –”

“He’s not going to answer,” Sam finishes, pushing tangles of sweaty hair out of his face with a weary huff. “And even if he does pick up, we both know what he’ll say.”

_Get rid of it._

No. If anything, Dean would get an earful for dragging Sam into this. He’s too reckless. Going to get himself killed. Going to get Sam killed.

Definitely all of that, but John might also know someone who knows something about spells like this. And there’s got to be a witch doctor or some spell out there that can fix this. It’s worth a shot.

Dean takes out his phone and calls John, turning away from Sam’s silent disapproval. It just keeps ringing. When the voicemail begins, Dean hangs up and calls again. This time, two rings before going to voicemail.

Call rejected.

“Dean, I –” Sam stops and squeezes his eyes shut again, grabbing and crushing Dean’s forearm with one hand while clawing somewhere under his belly with the other. He inhales sharply, breathing out on a long shaky groan. “When you called, she added something to the symbols she put on me. I think whatever it was is the reason I can’t just… have it.” He gives Dean a pointed look.

Dean’s pretty sure he gets the message. “Okay, then how is it going to come outta you?”

Sam loosens his grip on Dean, but doesn’t break eye contact. “You got a knife on you?”

Dean just stares, waiting for the punch line because there’s no way that Sam is serious. But Sam’s not wearing his joking face. “All right, you know what? Get up, Sam. Come on.” He tries to pull Sam to his feet, but Sam still won’t move. “I know I saw signs for a hospital on my way here. Now, we might have to pay a few people off to keep you outta the papers, but –”

“Dean, please. I…” There’s that fear again, and Dean stops pulling on Sam, kneeling down by him instead. Sam relaxes enough to force the shakiness in his voice away. “Two days, Dean. And you know what this feels like. I’m just not…” He trails off, but the words are etched into Sam’s features.

“Not what? Strong enough? Is that what you were going to say to me? You’re not strong enough?” And then, Sam Winchester, who has been shot, stabbed, and clawed up more times in the past ten years than anyone should be in a lifetime, cuts his eyes away in shame. What is this thing doing to him? “Sammy, you gotta fight this. Whatever this –” _thing thing thing_. It’s easier to just point at it. “ – _this_ is doing to you, you gotta get on top of it, man. ‘Cause this isn’t you. A hospital is our best chance at getting you outta this alive.”

Sam’s eyes are shut tightly and he’s shaking his head no. Over and over again, no. His fingernails dig into Dean’s arm again and he cries out, suddenly bending forward when his stomach clenches into a tight ball. He holds his breath through the worst of it, gasping for air when it’s done.

“Dean… please.” Sam’s eyes are wet when he opens them again.

Shit.

Dean makes a decision and it isn’t the right one.

He gently breaks free of Sam’s hold and gives Sam’s chest a pat before standing up. “Okay, Sammy. Sit tight.”

He’s going to do this.

Dean runs out to the car and digs out a handful of painkillers from the trunk. Sam won’t need all of them, but the kid’s as big as a damn tree and Dean has no clue how many it’ll take to get Sam nice and numb. Probably won’t do much good anyway, especially if Dean fucks this up. Where even is this baby? Above Sam’s organs? Under them? How deep can Dean cut before he accidentally slices through baby?

Except, he’s not going to fuck this up. Sam will be fine. Sam will be fine. Sam will be fine. And if he keeps repeating that, maybe Sam really will be fine. He grabs the sharpest hunting knife from the weapons cache and the first aid kit.

He’s ready.

He can do this.

Sam will be fine.

Dean feels like he’s going to throw up.

When Dean goes back inside, Sam is already on the tail end of another pain. He rejoins Sam on the floor and offers the pills to him. Not surprisingly, Sam pushes Dean’s hand away and shakes his head.

“Sam, this is gonna hurt like a mother, dude. A couple won’t hurt.” Dean side-eyes Sam when he shakes his head again because Sam is either turning down the pills because he thinks they won’t help or because he’s worried about them hurting the baby. But Dean’s not going to ask. He’d honestly rather not know.

Dean pockets the pills and waits for Sam’s pain to stop. He knows it’s over when Sam stops taking quick shallow breaths and starts taking in a few satisfying deep ones.

“I’m good.” Sam uses Dean’s hand as leverage to gently lower himself flat on his back. He stares up silently at that hole Dean made in the ceiling for a moment. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to tell you something, in case, you know…”

“Yeah, we’re not doing that. Now, hold still and bite down on this.” Dean holds a roll of gauze by Sam’s mouth, but Sam knocks it away.

“If something happens to me –”

“Nothin’s gonna happen to you.” Dean picks up the hunting knife and pulls Sam’s shirt up as far up as he can, exposing the dark red symbols drawn across his stomach.

“Dean, listen to me.” Sam props himself up on his elbows. “If I don’t make it, Greta’s got my phone. Get it and call Jessica. She’ll… she’ll tell you everything. And if this baby lives, if it’s human, Jess might…” He can’t even bring himself to finish the thought and Dean can’t blame him. It’s the worst-case scenario, where Sam is dead and the thing that killed him isn’t.

If this baby lives? The baby hadn’t even crossed Dean’s mind, not really the _after_ part of it, at least. His only goal is to get it the hell out of his brother. Saving Sam is still the top priority here. And the baby –well, it’d better come out screaming and healthy and human because Dean isn’t going to go out of his way to save the thing –that’s right, _thing_ –that killed his brother. No fucking way. Besides, he’s kind of doing that now, risking Sam’s ass with the hope that at least one of them might live.

But Dean isn’t about to tell Sam any of this. He’s going to promise whatever Sam wants him to. But that isn’t what comes out, not after Dean remembers the scratching he’d felt under his hand. “And if it isn’t human?”

“If it’s not…” Sam sighs softly. “It’s still a baby, Dean. Just promise you won’t kill it.”

What’s he supposed to do with it then? Set it free into the woods for some other hunter to find it? Or for _it_ to find some other hunter? No way. Nope. No promises. Can’t do it.

But Dean nods. “Fine, Sam,” he says.

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he lies down and goes back to staring at the ceiling, resting his forearm across his mouth and biting down.

Dean lines up the knife below Sam’s navel and rests his other hand on top of the fleshy mound of belly and baby. He tries not to react to the movement he sees and feels or to the muffled panting and moaning coming from Sam. He shuts it all out and focuses because just maybe he’ll do something right today and save his brother.

Maybe.

He presses the knife down into the taut skin and makes a shallow cut across the first two symbols on Sam’s stomach. Sam goes completely stiff, arching his back with a muffled yell. Dean moves his hand to Sam’s chest to press him back down.

“Goin’ as fast as I can, Sammy.” But he isn’t, and Sam is bleeding so much already. Dean wants to stop, probably _should_ stop, but he’s almost halfway there. No use in stopping now.

Dean keeps going, keeps slicing through to the third symbol. His hand slips and he goes a little deeper than he’d intended, but it’s okay because going deeper is exactly what Dean is supposed to be doing. Otherwise, this is just torturing Sam, and they both need this to be over soon.

But he doesn’t have to go any further. The symbols start lighting up one by one and then there’s a bright white flash that nearly blinds them both. When the light fades, Sam doesn’t have a belly anymore, though he’s still bleeding a lot. The symbols are gone and the only cuts there are from Dean’s blade. Dean puts down the knife and starts in on the open wound in front of him with the needle and thread.

Sam is quiet while Dean works. Keeps staring up at the ceiling, lost in that head of his. Dean doesn’t have to ask what he’s thinking about. Sam was going to sacrifice himself for the baby. The baby that isn’t here –isn’t anywhere. Maybe had never been anywhere. Easier to just not let their minds go there. But they had both felt something, hadn’t they?

“It wasn’t real, Sam.” Sam’s eyes fall on Dean, but he doesn’t respond. “I know it felt like it, but Greta was just screwing with our heads. She said she wanted us to know what loss was.” Judging by the look on Sam’s face, the lesson had been successful. Greta probably hadn’t thought they’d think to cut through the symbols. And she probably hadn’t ever thought that Dean would be the one to do it. “There _was_ a loss, Sammy, but don’t waste it for _this_ baby.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dean cuts his eyes away from Sam and focuses on the bandage that he’s taking just a little too long to press down. “She, uh… She got Bailey,” He very briefly gestures toward the blood-covered box on the floor. “I found her when I walked in. I don’t know what she did to her, but Bailey is…” He looks up at Sam, expecting tears or anger or anything that isn’t Sam just staring silently and blankly at that box.

“And this is entirely on me, Sam,” Dean continues, unable to get any eye contact. “Because you were right. I should’ve let you take her. She’d have been safe with you.”

If Sam is registering anything Dean is saying, he doesn’t make it obvious. Sam presses his hand to his stomach, getting to his feet and over to the box with a groan, pulling open its flaps and pushing the bloody blanket aside.

And he just stares.

Frowns a moment. A thinking frown. A ‘trying hard to piece together a puzzle’ kind of frown.

“That’s not Bailey.”

The words nearly knock Dean down on his ass. He gets up and stands beside Sam, looking down into the box and expecting to see some face that doesn’t come close to their daughter’s. But the same face is tilted up at him and Dean frowns. “Sam, this is…” Dean’s voice shakes and he starts again. “Look at her, Sammy. It’s her.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, it isn’t.”

Dean looks at him. There’s confidence in Sam’s voice that doesn’t give much room for any further debate. So either Sam is in deep denial, or he has a piece of the puzzle that Dean doesn’t. He decides to play along for now. “Okay. So what are you thinkin’? A spell?”

“Well, she was a witch, wasn’t she? Plus, this box has all kinds of symbols in it. Like this one –” Sam squats down with a pained grimace and points to a still wet bloody symbol. “I’ve seen this before in one of those old books Dad keeps in the trunk. It’s a Nordic sigil used to intimidate enemies using fear. And it makes sense that losing Bailey would be high on your list of fears. So, combined with the right spell –”

“ –whatever fear happens to be front and center in my mind at the time could show up in the box.”

Sam nods. “It explains why Bailey looks so small. Maybe the spell shows you things the way you remember them instead of the way they actually are.”

Dean slowly nods as common sense finally begins to catch up. “Right. Because Bailey wouldn’t look like this. She’d be a little bigger.”

“Exactly.” Sam rips the box right down the middle, tearing through the larger sigils. The box, the blanket, and the baby all dissolve into a pile of gray ash on the floor. Sam lets Dean help him up and walks over to the witch, bending over and reaching into her pocket for his cell phone. He sighs when, of course, the screen remains dark from the drained battery. Sam shoves his phone in his pocket and turns back to Dean, who is eyeing him strangely.

Suspiciously, even.

Sam raises his eyebrows. “What?”

Dean just nods and folds his arms over his chest. “When I saw Bailey lying there, I don’t even know how long I stood here looking at her, trying to figure out what I could’ve done differently, how I’d let her down… how I’d let _you_ down.” His voice wavers a bit and he swallows thickly before continuing. “You look at her for what –ten _seconds_ before you knew it wasn’t her?”

“I _didn’t_ know, not for sure.”

Dean shakes his head at him. “You sounded pretty damn sure, Sam. You said that the spell didn’t show me the way things _actually_ _are_ , which makes me think that you _know_ the way things actually are.”

“What are you talking about, Dean? I had a hunch and I went with it.” Sam shrugs. “Can we just drop it?”

Dean lowers his eyes and nods. “Yeah. Just, uh, just one last thing and then consider it dropped… The girl you mentioned –Jessica, right? You said if I called her, she’d tell me everything.” When his eyes flicker up to Sam, he can almost see the color draining out of him. “Everything, like what? Are we talkin’ gold bars in a floor safe or somethin’ else?”

Sam doesn’t answer.

“You went back to get her, didn’t you?” Sam still isn’t saying anything, but Dean knows his brother’s body language well. “After everything we talked about, you still went back for her?”

Whatever challenge or denial left in Sam dissolves into guilt right before Dean’s eyes. “I couldn’t just leave her there, Dean.”

Dean just turns away from him, a strangled laugh making its way over the lump in his throat.

Sam sighs softly. “I was going to tell you.”

“Right.”

“The phone was in my hand, Dean. But I thought about what you said. That you didn’t want her and that you didn’t want to be a dad. And I didn’t want you to think I was pushing that on you. So, I didn’t call.” Sam lets out a shaky breath the way he does when he’s about to say something that he knows Dean won’t like. “Then I waited for you to call me. But you didn’t. Almost seventeen weeks and nothing. So, I thought that maybe you didn’t care.”

“You kiddin’ me? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” The sound of Sam’s head colliding so violently into the wall behind him should have worried Dean or at least made him back off a little. He actually hadn’t meant to push him so hard, but what’s he going to do now? Take it back? Apologize?

A sharp inhale from Sam, but he seems okay. Probably popped his stitches, but Dean can’t bring himself to care. So he keeps Sam pinned against the wall. Keeps yelling in his face. “All I’ve done since that day is think about her! I’m the one who told you that you could go back for her in the first place, Sam! You think I didn’t care? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sam doesn’t fight against Dean’s hold on him, but tired, angry eyes stare right back into Dean’s. “How was I supposed to know what you felt, Dean? One text in four months and it’s some stupid joke about digging graves!” When Dean doesn’t offer a rebuttal, Sam continues. “Dean, we both know the only reason you told me to get her is because you never thought I actually would.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit, Sam!”

“Think about it, Dean. You fought me so hard on keeping her and then, after we leave her there, you tell me I can do what I want? It’s the same thing Dad does. Keeps making his point and guilt-tripping me until he _knows_ he’s in my head. Then, he gives me a choice when he’s sure I’ll pick _his_ side. He’s always done it that way. And so have you.”

Dean clenches his jaw, but he lets Sam go. Whether or not Dean had been conscious of what he was doing (and he hadn’t been), Sam isn’t wrong. Dean had browbeaten Sam into submission and then had waited until he’d driven them back to the motel before suggesting that Sam get Bailey. And in four months, Sam having Bailey hadn’t crossed his mind once because he had been so certain that he’d convinced Sam to do ‘what was best’ for their daughter.

Sam wraps his arm across his aching middle and tries to stand up straight without wincing. “Look, Dean, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. And you have every right to be pissed, okay? Every right.”

Dean drags a hand down his face and tries to get his thoughts together. Tries to think of something to say. _Anything_ to say. Instead, his eyes fall on the dark wet splotch peeking around Sam’s arm. And Sam keeps staring into Dean’s eyes whenever they flicker up, determined to keep this conversation going even while bleeding out.

“Sam,” Dean gestures at the arm no longer able to cover the mess of blood behind it, and Sam moves it out of the way for Dean to get a better look.

It only takes a few minutes to re-patch Sam. But nothing of substance makes it past Dean’s tightly clenched jaw. Asks Sam if the bandage is too tight, but that’s it. He can’t even look at Sam right now. But it’s okay. Sam fills the silence.

“Come home with me, Dean.” He doesn’t get eye contact, but Dean stops pretending that repacking the first aid kit requires his undivided attention. “You don’t have to stay forever, just long enough to see Bailey.”

Dean scoffs. “If you expect me to hold Bailey, get all weepy, and forgive four months of lies just like that…”

“That’s not what I’m –“ Sam presses his lips together tightly and quickly pushes down the anger he feels bubbling. “You want to see her, don’t you?”

Of course he wants to see her. He wants to hold her and stare down into that little face and make soft cooing noises at her that he’d never admit to in public. He wants to go out and buy that tacky Metallica onesie that had popped up as an ad in the corner of the computer screen while he had been researching at the library a few weeks back. He wants to see if she still has Sam’s eyes. Wants to run his hand through those soft brown curls again.

So, two hours later, the boys are in Stanford. Dean hadn’t spoken more than a few words the whole way there, listening to Sam tell the very long story of how he had tracked Dean to New Mexico and, with help from one of Dad’s police buddies at a station two states over, had gotten rid of evidence linking Dean to the double homicide of those two witches. The impounded Impala and all other evidence had made its way to Turlock a day later.

Something close to gratitude almost comes out of Dean’s mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. Not even because he’s still angry –which he very much is, and he knows it’s petty. But Sam doesn’t want a thank you. He just isn’t like that. He never has been. They’re family. Dean knows Sam will always have his back when it counts and Dean will have Sam’s. It’s not something that needs acknowledgment. It’s not something they need to say to each other or anyone else. And it’s not something they need to thank each other for.

But maybe Dean is a little less angry when he thinks about that.

When they get to Sam’s apartment, the door flies open before Sam can turn the key, a young woman with long curly blonde hair stepping in front of Sam looking like she could spit fire at the both of them. But everything about her softens the moment she notices the fresh bruises on Sam’s face and the awkward way he’s sort of bent over.

And she’s got questions. So many questions.

Sam’s got it covered. Dean doesn’t say a word. He’d never say it to his face, but Sam’s always had this natural charm and innocence that makes it hard not to believe everything that comes out of his mouth. If Dean hadn’t been so familiar with it, he might have been a victim of it more often.

Jessica doesn’t bother to look at Dean until Sam mentions him by name. Only happens twice. The first time, her eyes are on Dean and just as quickly off. The second time, something seems to sink in and when her eyes slide over to Dean, there’s annoyance, but also judgment. She offers him a tight-lipped smile when Sam finally introduces them.

“Listen, Dean’s sticking around for a while,” Sam says. Dean tries not to react to that, but what’s ‘a while’? They hadn’t discussed ‘a while’ and Dean hadn’t agreed to ‘a while’. “And we’ve got a lot to catch each other up on, so…”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

When Jessica doesn’t move to let either of them pass, Sam raises his eyebrows at her. “Jess? You gonna let us in?”

Jessica kind of slides her eyes from Sam to Dean and back again, but she doesn’t answer and she doesn’t move.

Sam finally understands and gives her a look. “Jess, please?”

“Fine, I’ll leave.” Jessica rolls her eyes, thrusts a baby monitor into his hand, and moves away from the door, taking a few steps down the hall and opening her apartment door. Dean could swear she gives him that judging look again as she passes by, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

Jessica starts to close her door behind her, but pokes her head out instead. “She’s asleep, and it’ll be time for a bottle when she wakes up… And I’m defrosting the welcome-home-lasagna I made you a couple of nights ago and you’re _both_ coming over later to eat it.”

Sam smiles. “Sounds great, Jess. And thanks.”

Once she’s gone, Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam as he strolls past him and into the apartment, tossing Sam’s duffel bag on the sofa. “What the hell you been tellin’ that girl about me?”

Sam closes the door behind them. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. You saw how she was looking at me. How she was protecting Bailey from me. So if I’m stickin’ around for welcome-home-lasagna, then we gotta get our stories straight. So which one of us is Bailey’s dad? You? Me? We find her on a doorstep or what?”

“No.” Sam sits down on the arm of the sofa and sighs. “What I told Jess isn’t that far from the truth. I told her you called me the night Bailey was born and I came down for support, even though you wanted me to stay away. And in the end, I couldn’t convince you to keep her, so I got her behind your back.”

Dean frowns. No wonder Jessica had looked at him like he was a monster. Between Sam telling her that Dean had abandoned his child and maybe even that he wasn’t sure Dean cared about her, of course she was going to look at him like that. “You got your girlfriend thinkin’ I’m some deadbeat dad? That was the best you could come up with –making me look bad?”

Sam shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to make you look bad –”

“I was completely upfront with you about why I didn’t keep Bailey, Sam!”

“I know that, Dean –”

“I didn’t go behind your back for four months keepin’ secrets!”

“Dean.” In spite of the yelling and fingers in his face, Sam doesn’t raise his voice. He can’t be angry about a wildfire he’s pretty sure he helped start in the first place. “All I told Jess was that you thought you couldn’t take care of Bailey because of the way you lived. With all the traveling you do, never settling down –you and I lived that life and you wanted better for her. Even Jess said that it was probably the best thing you could have done for Bailey.”

Dean looks away. The best thing he could have done for Bailey? Then why hadn’t it ever felt that way?

“Hang on.” Sam suddenly puts the baby monitor up to his ear and listens a moment before standing up. He winces and rubs his stomach, looking to Dean apologetically. “Bailey’s up. You mind getting her? I’d go, but I’d have to bend down to get her out of her crib and I’ve already busted these stitches once. I’ll get her a bottle ready in case she’s a little fussy.”

Dean’s not sure that he’s ever heard his brother use the word ‘fussy’. But he just said it like it was nothing, and it probably should be nothing, but something in Dean’s brain won’t let it go. He wonders what other soft words Sam has picked up since Bailey. Bet he speaks in third person and goes all high-pitched and singsongy with her. Dean’s kind of dying to know, so he shakes his anger and heads to Bailey’s room with a smirk.

There’s music playing over a stereo in the corner of the room, some tune plinking out on a toy piano. It’s familiar, but Dean wasn’t exactly raised on nursery rhymes. He doesn’t know what it is, and he’s not a fan. It makes the walk to Bailey’s crib feel ominous and creepy like he’s in a horror movie.

But there’s nothing creepy about what greets him when he peers into the crib. Bailey’s lying on her back, one hand gripping a soft plush elephant attached to a plastic ring on the crib rail. Her grip is tight enough to turn her fingertips white, but the toy slips from her fingers and bounces lightly against the rails. The grunts she gives it are ripe with frustration and she knits her little brows before reaching out for it again.

It’s no wonder Sam knew Bailey wasn’t the baby at that house. Gone is the tiny six-pound newborn with the squished face that had curled herself up under rough motel towels on Dean’s chest. Bailey is noticeably bigger than that now. And Dean can see some of his own features in her more clearly. The shape of his lips, the curve of his nose. Still Sam’s eyes though, the shape of Sam’s face. Brown hair that isn’t as dark or as curly as he remembers. But there’s no denying that this is Bailey.

Dean reaches into the crib and gently squeezes her foot to get her attention. Bailey turns away from the toy and her eyes find Dean.

It’s then that Dean remembers that he really doesn’t know how to do this. He remembers that he’s a stranger to his own daughter. They hadn’t exactly had much time to bond. She hadn’t grown inside him for nine months getting to know his voice. And she won’t remember her first few hours with him on the day she was born. God knows he doesn’t know anything about her –what makes her smile or laugh or cry. Then he remembers how scratched up his face is and maybe that will scare her. Maybe she won’t like him. Maybe she’ll take one look at his unfamiliar bruised face and she’ll –

Bailey smiles and babbles some vowel sounds at him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. Maybe Sam is standing there or there’s a stuffed duck on a shelf or something. Because Bailey isn’t talking to him. She can’t be smiling at him.

But she is.

Dean hopes he’s smiling back, but there are tears rolling down his cheeks. And maybe there’s some joy in there somewhere, but there’s mostly shame. There’s guilt. There are his father’s words echoing in his ears over and over.

_Get rid of it._

_That thing you had in Nevada._

His _daughter_. And she’s right in front of him, safe and beautiful and growing and healthy. But Dean can’t take credit for any of it. He had left Bailey at that hospital, hadn’t checked up on her to see if she’d gone to a good family, hadn’t even checked with Sam to see how he was handling everything. Instead, he’d stayed so far away from them both that Sam had questioned whether or not Dean had cared.

He had abandoned them both.

He had failed them.

He had failed them and he’s sorry. He’s sorry he hadn’t been strong enough to confront his father. He’s sorry he’d left his daughter alone in a world that would never prepare her for what’s really out there. He’s sorry that he’d let anything separate him and Bailey. He’s sorry that he let so much time pass before talking to Sam.

“Bailey.” His throat is too clenched to do much more than whisper and he lightly runs his fingers through her hair. “Bailey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Bailey just blinks at him a moment. Then she sticks out her bottom lip, whimpers, and turns her attention back to the toy elephant.

Dean gets it. Less drama in plush.

He wipes his face and blows out a breath. What the hell is he doing? Yeah, he’s sorry and he’s suffering and would do anything to take back what he’d done, and none of that is new. But he hadn’t come here to drop all that at his little girl’s feet. He’s not here to upset her. And yet, here he is, stressing her out, stressing himself out. Bailey doesn’t care about what he did. Maybe someday she will, but right now she’s not holding any grudges.

Dean clears his throat of the lump of what he can only assume are all his emotions, getting Bailey’s attention again. She turns back to him and smiles.

This time, Dean smiles back. “That funny?” He clears his throat again.

Bailey laughs, so of course he does it again. This time, he laughs too.

His daughter. And she’s right in front of him, safe and beautiful and growing and healthy. Damn it, that’s a win.

Time to act like it.


End file.
